J LIBRARY OF CONGRESS,# 

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| UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, f 



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— * — 

A WOMAN'S POEMS. 

I vol. i6mo. $1.50. 



A VOYAGE TO THE FORTUNATE ISLES, ETC. 

1 vol. 161110. $1.50. 

*** For sale by Booksellers. Sent, post-paid, 071 receipt of price 
by tJie Publishers, 

JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO., Boston. 



THAT NEW WORLD, 



AND 



OTHER POEMS. 



BY $X 

MRS. St Mj B. PIATT, 

AUTHOR OF "A WOMAN'S POEMS," " A VOYAGE TO THE FORTUNATE 
ISLES, ETC." 



H 




BOSTON: 
JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY. 

(Late Ticknor & Fields, and Fields, Osgood, & Co. ) 

1877. 



-fS2 



s^ 



-xv 



Copyright, 1876. 
By MRS. S. M. B. PIATT. 



The Riverside Press, Cambridge : 

STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY 
H. O. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY. 



CONTENTS. 

♦ 

THAT NEW WORLD, Etc. 

PAGH 

That New World 13 

Enchanted 16 

The Altar at Athens 19 

Lady Franklin 22 

Her Cross and Mine 24 

Counting the Graves 26 

In her Prison 29 

We Two 32 

The Gift of Empty Hands 35 

A Queen at Home 38 

Answering a Child 40 

The King's Memento Mori 42 

My Birthright 44 

Comfort — By a Coffin 46 



viii CONTENTS. 

Sad Wisdom 49 

Giving up the World 5 1 

No Help 53 

Home Again 5 6 

Asking for Tears 60 

Calling the Dead 61 

OTHER POEMS. 

Folded Hands 65 

The Longest Death- Watch 67 

Two Veils 73 

Tradition of Conquest 76 

To a Dead Bird 78 

Made of Shadow 82 

In a Queen's Domain 85 

The Song No Bird should sing in Vain . . 87 

A Dead Man's Friends 88 

Making Peace 90 

The Bird in the Brain 91 

Some Ruined Castles ... • • 93 

A Letter from To-morrow . . . . . 94 

Her Well-known Story 99 

Fulfillment ......... ioi 



CONTENTS. IX 

WITH CHILDREN. 
The Little Boy I dreamed about . . . .105 
The Baby's Hand 109 

IF I HAD MADE THE WORLD Ill 

"More about Fairies" 115 

The Sad Story of a Little Girl . . . .119 
At Hans Andersen's Funeral . . . .122 

Wishing for Diamonds 126 

Voices of the Night 129 



THAT NEW WORLD, ETC. 




-3Jf& 




THAT NEW WORLD. 

How gracious we are to grant to the dead 
Those wide, vague lands in the foreign sky, 

Reserving this world for ourselves instead — 
For we must live, though others must die ! 

And what is this world that we keep, I pray ? 

True, it has glimpses of dews and flowers ; 
Then Youth and Love are here and away, 

Like mated birds — but nothing is ours. 



14 THAT NEW WORLD. 

Ah, nothing indeed, but we cling to it all. 

It is nothing to hear one's own heart beat, 
It is nothing to see one's own tears fall ; 

Yet surely the breath of our life is sweet. 

Yes, the breath of our life is so sweet, I feai 
We were loath to give it for all we know 

Of that charmed Country we hold so dear, 
Far into whose beauty the breathless go. 

Yet certain we are, when we see them fade 
Out of the pleasant light of the sun, 

Of the sands of gold in the palm-leaf's shade, 
And the strange, high jewels all these have 
won. 

You dare not doubt it, O soul of mine ! 

And yet, if these empty eyes could see 
One, only one, from that voyage divine, 

With something, anything, sure for me ! 



THAT NEW WORLD. 1 5 

Ah, blow me the scent of one lily, to tell 
That it grew outside of this world, at most ; 

Ah, show me a plume to touch, or a shell 
That whispers of some unearthly coast ! 



ENCHANTED. 

She sat in a piteous hut 

In a wood where poisons grew ; 

Withered was every leaf, 

And her face was withered too. 

Like a sword the fierce wind cut 

Her worn heart through and through. 

Gray as the frost was her hair, 
Dim as the dusk were her eyes, 

As still as stone was her mouth ; 
Yet she knew that she was fair, 

And she knew that she was wise. 
Therefore she waited there. 



ENCHANTED. 1 7 

Away, and so far away, 

She looked for a light and a sign : 
" Oh, he has not forgotten me ! 

What should I care for to-day, 
When all to-morrow is mine ? 

I am content to stay." 

On the heights the hail would beat, 
In the thorns would sink the snow, 

And the chasms were weird with sound ; 
Yet the years would come and go : 
11 Somewhere there is something sweet, 
And sometime I shall know. 

" There is a land close by, 

A land in reach of my arm ; 
It is mine from shore to sea ; — 

There the nightingales do fly, 
There the flush of the rose is warm : 

I shall take it by and by. 



1 8 ENCHANTED. 

" But the shape that guards the gate, 
Where my mirror waits to show 

How beautiful I am, 

Oh, he makes me loath to go. 

I wait, and I wait, and I wait, — 
Through fear of him, I know. 

" But who breaks this charm of breath 
Enchantment himself must wear. 

Two from each other shrink 

In the freezing dark, and stare : . . 

Your kiss for my kiss, O Death ! 
Each makes the other fair." 



THE ALTAR AT ATHENS. 

" TO THE UNKNOWN GOD." 

Because my life was hollow with a pain 
As old as — death : because my eyes were 
dry 
As the fierce tropics after months of rain : 
Because my restless voice said " Why ? " 
and " Why ? " 

Wounded and worn, I knelt within the night, 
As blind as darkness — Praying ? And to 
Whom ? — 

When yon cold crescent cut my folded sight. 
And showed a phantom Altar in my room 



20 THE ALTAR AT ATHENS. 

It was the Altar Paul at Athens saw. 

The Greek bowed there, but not the Greek 
alone ; 
The ghosts of nations gathered, wan with 
awe, 
And laid their offerings on that shadowy 
stone. 

The Egyptian worshiped there the crocodile, 

There they of Nineveh the bull with wings ; 
The Persian there, with swart sun-lifted 
smile, 
Felt in his soul the writhing fire's bright 
stings. 

There the weird Druid held his mistletoe ; 

There for the scorched son of the sand, 
coiled bright, 
The torrid snake was hissing sharp and low ; 

And there the Western savage paid his rite. 



THE ALTAR AT ATHENS. 21 

' Allah !" the Moslem darkly muttered there ; 
u Brahma ! " the jeweled Indies of the East 
Sighed through their spices, with a languid 

prayer ; 
M Christ ? " faintly questioned many a paler 
priest. 

And still the Athenian Altar's glimmering 
Doubt 
On all religions — evermore the same. 
What tears shall wash its sad inscription out? 
What Hand shall write thereon His other 
name ? 



LADY FRANKLIN. 

In shadowy ships, that freeze, 

We think of men who sail, the frozen-fated ; 
Tears, if you will, for these. 
But oh, the truest searcher of the seas 

In the blown breath of English daisies 
waited. 

.... A Pathway, here or there, 

He sought — the old, unlighted Pathway 
finding : 
Out of the North's despair, 
Out of the South's flower-burdened wastes of 
air, 
To that great Peaceful Sea forever winding. 



LADY FRANKLIN. 23 

.... Oh, after her vague quest 

Among weird winds, in icy deserts, lonely, 
Has she laid down to rest 
Under a Palm, whose light leaves on her 
breast 
Drop balms of summer, sun and silence 
only ? 

Has some one whispered : " Why, 

O woman faithful, why this dark delaying 

Outside the pleasant sky ? — 

How could you seek me in the snows, when I 
Here, in the Loveliest Land of all, was 
staying ? " 



HER CROSS AND MINE. 

" This is my cross — here, Sister, see : 
The only one I have to bear." 
A flash of gold fell over me, 

And precious lights were everywhere. 

She was a lovely, restless thing, 
With time in blossom at her feet, 

And on her hand the enchanted ring 
Whose promise always is so sweet. 

I was a nun. My fearless eyes 

Had looked their last on youth. I guessed 
At something quiet in the skies, 

And veiled my face against the rest. 



HER CROSS AND MINE. 2$ 

My cross was dark and darkly stained, 
Even from the heart of one who died : — 

Invisible drops of blood had rained 
Thereon, when love was crucified. 

That laughing girl could pity me, 
Because she fancied from my cross 

The world had fallen. Such as she 
Still think to lose the world — is loss ! 

Yet, heavier is her cross than mine, 

For in the fatal jewels there 
(Oh, will she ask for help divine ?) 

I know she has the world to bear. 



COUNTING THE GRAVES. 

" How many graves are in this world ? " " Oh, 
child," 
His mother answered, " surely there are 
two." 
Archly he shook his pretty head and smiled : 
"I mean in this whole world, you know I 
do!" 

" Well, then, in this whole world : in East and 
West, 
In North and South, in dew and sand and 
snow, 
In all sad places where the dead may rest : 
There are two graves — yes, there are two, 
I know." 



COUNTING THE GRAVES. 2? 

"But graves have been here for a thousand 
years, — 
Or, for ten thousand ? Soldiers die, and 
kings ; 
And Christians die — sometimes." " My own 
poor tears 
Have never yet been troubled by these 
things. 

. . . . " More graves within the hollow 
ground, in sooth, 
Than there are stars in all the pleasant 
sky ? — 
Where did you ever learn such dreary truth, 
Oh, wiser and less selfish far than I ? 

" I did not know, — I who had light and breath : 
Something to touch, to look at, if no more. 
Fair earth to live in, who believe in death, 
Till, dumb and blind, he lies at their own 
door?" 



28 COUNTING THE GRAVES. 

. . . . u I did not know — I may have heard or 

read — 
Of more ; but should I ^earch the wide 

grass through, 
Lift every flower and every thorn/' she said, 
" From every grave — oh, I should see but 

two ! " 



IN HER PRISON. 

Watched with the cruel watching of the stars 
Barred by the powers of darkness with their 
bars : 

Oh ! those that see me see as far as space, 
And these that hold me circle every place. 

My feet are tangled in the chains of Time, 
My hands cannot take hold on air and climb. 

And I am dumb — because the heavens are 

high, 
And who can hope to scale them with a cry ? 

The floor is gray with mould on which I tread, 
Dust gathers in the silence overhead. 



30 IN HER PRISON. 

With bitter bread and water hardly sweet 
My jailer mocks me, saying : " Drink and eat." 

Yet somewhere there are carpets soft and rare, 
And lights and laughter in the world — some- 
where ? 

And somewhere there are golden cups of wine, 
And snowy cakes where combs of honey shine. 

Through other lips I taste the wine, and touch 
Through other feet the carpets — that is much. 

I see through other eyes the lights, and hear 
The laughter clearly, not with mine own ear. 

My grating gathers me a drop of dew ; 
Some piteous blossom sends its sweetness 
through. 



IN HER PRISON. 3 1 

Some tender bird, far on a sunny tree, 
Breaks his wild song and gives one half to me. 

The palace music leaves the palace guest, 
And falls to dreaming here upon my breast. 

Yet, spite of all, sometimes my Prison shakes 
With the great yearning of a heart that aches. 

Oh ! that its lonesome roof would fall to-night, 
And show me for an instant — something 
White ! 



WE TWO. 

God's will is — the bud of the rose for your 
hair, 
The ring for your hand and the pearl for 
your breast ; 
God's will is — the mirror that makes you look 
fair. 
No wonder you whisper : " God's will is the 
best." 

But w % hat if God's will were the famine, the 
flood ? — 
And were God's will the coffin shut down in 
your face ? — 
And were God's will the worm in the fold of 
the bud, 
Instead of the picture, the light, and the lace ? 



WE two. 33 

Were God's will the arrow that flieth by night, 

Were God's will the pestilence walking by 

day, 

The clod in the valley, the rock on the 

height — 

I fancy " God's will " would be harder to say. 

God's will is — your own will. What honor 
have you 
For having your own will, awake or asleep ? 
Who praises the lily for keeping the dew, 
When the dew is so sweet for the lily to 
keep ? 

God's will unto me is not music or wine. 
With helpless reproaching, with desolate 
tears, 
God's will I resist, for God's will is divine ; 
And I — shall be dust to the end of my 
years. 

3 



34 WE TWO. 

God's will is — not mine. Yet one night I 
shall lie 
Very still at his feet, where the stars may not 
shine. 
" Lo ! I am well pleased," I shall hear from the 
sky; 
Because — it is God's will I do, and not mine. 



THE GIFT OF EMPTY HANDS. 

A FAIRY TALE. 

They were two Princes doomed to death ; 
Each loved his beauty and his breath : 
" Leave us our life and we will bring 
Fair gifts unto our lord, the King." 

They went together. In the dew 
A charmed bird before them flew. 
Through sun and thorn one followed it ; 
Upon the others arm it lit. 

A rose, whose faintest flush was worth 
All buds that ever blew on earth, 
One climbed the rocks to reach ; ah, well, 
Into the other's breast it fell. 



36 THE GIFT OF EMPTY HANDS. 

Weird jewels, such as fairies wear, 
When moons go out, to light their hair, 
One tried to touch on ghostly ground ; 
Gems of quick fire the other found. 

One with the dragon fought to gain 
The enchanted fruit, and fought in vain ; 
The other breathed the garden's air 
And gathered precious apples there. 

Backward to the imperial gate 

One took his fortune, one his fate : 

One showed sweet gifts from sweetest lands, 

The other torn and empty hands. 

At bird, and rose, and gem, and fruit, 
The King was sad, the King was mute ; 
At last he slowly said : " My son, 
True treasure is not lightly won. 



THE GIFT OF EMPTY HANDS. 2>7 

u Your brother's hands, wherein you see 
Only these scars, show more to me 
Than if a kingdom's price I found 
In place of each forgotten wound." 



A QUEEN AT HOME. 

They know that the world is mine, 
(I am but a name to them,) 

And they fancy its jewels shine 
All over my garment's hem. 

My face seems bright from afar 
To their loyal eyes and trust : 

But who looks too close at a star 
Will find it is made of dust. 

My friend, you have whiter bread ; 

My friend, you have redder wine, 
And a fairer roof for your head, 

Though beggar you be, than mine. 



A QUEEN AT HOME. 39 

To the poor I give of my gold ; 

By the wounded I watch at night ; 
To the eyes of the dying I hold 

A cross — not mine own — for a light. 



x fc> x 



Yes, the world is mine, but I pray 
On my cloister floor alone ; 

My hood and my cloak are gray, 
And my pillow is but a stone. 



ANSWERING A CHILD. 

But if I should ask the king ? — 
He could if he would ? Ah, no. 

Though he took from his hand the ring, 
Though he took from his head the crown — 
In the dust I should lay them down. 

If I sat at a fairy's feet ? — 

A fairy could if she would ? 
(Oh, the fairy-faith is sweet !) 

Though she gave me her wand and her wings, 

To me they were pitiful things. 

Ask God ? — He can if He will ? — 
He is better than fairies or kings ? 
(Ask God ?— He would whisper : " Be still/') 



ANSWERING A CHILD. 41 

Though He gave me each star I can see 
Through my tears — it were nothing to me. 

" He can do " But He cannot undo 

The terrible darkened gate 
Which the fire of His will went through, 
Leading the Dead away. 
For the Past it is vain to pray ! 



THE KING'S MEMENTO MORI. 

Into the regal face the risen sun 

Laughed, and he whispered in dismay : 

" How is it, Victor of a World, that none 
Remind you what you are, to-day ? 

" Your sword shall teach the slave, who could 
forget 
That men are mortal, what they are ! 
How dared he sleep, — he has not warned me 
yet,— 
After the last, loath, lagging star ? " 

. . . Across his palace threshold, wan and still, 
His morning herald, wet with dew, 



THE KINGS MEMENTO MORI. 43 

Stared at him with fixed eyes that well might 
chill 
The vanity of earth all through. 

" Good morrow, King," he heard the dead lips 
say; 

" See what is man. When did I tell 
My bitter message to my lord, I pray, 

So reverently and so well ? " 



MY BIRTHRIGHT. 

If I was born the helpless heir, 
Ah me, to some vague foreign place, 

Somewhere — and is it not somewhere ? — 
In the weird loneliness of Space, 

Why is my native grass so sweet, 

And tangled so about my feet ? 

If I, without my will, must take 
Immortal gifts of pearl and gold, 

And white saint-garments, for the sake 
Of my fair soul, why must I hold 

The jewels of the dust so dear, 

And purple and fine linen, here ? 



MY BIRTHRIGHT. 45 

If One has been for love of mine 
Willing, unseen of me, to die — 

A Prince whose beauty is divine, 

Whose kingdom without end — ah, why 

Would I forsake his face and moan, 

Only to kiss and keep your own ? 

If I, unworthy of my dower 

Among the palms of Paradise, 
Would give it for a funeral flower 

(In folded hands, that need not rise), 
Why may not some true angel be 
Rich with estate too high for me ? 



COMFORT — BY A COFFIN. 

Ah, friend of mine, 
The old enchanted story ! — Oh 

I cannot hear a word ! 
Tell some poor child who loved a bird, 
And knows he holds it stained and still, 

" It flies — in Fairyland ! 
Its nest is in a palm-tree, on a hill ; 

Go, catch it — if you will ! " 

Ah, friend of mine, 
The music (which ear hath not heard ?) 

At best wails from the skies, 
Somehow, into our funeral cries ! 



COMFORT — BY A COFFIN. 47 

The flowers (eye hath not seen ?) still tail 

To hide the coffin lid ; 
Against this face, so pitiless now and pale, 

Can the high heavens avail ? 

Ah, friend of mine, 
I think you mean — to mean it all ! 

But then an angel's wing 
Is a remote and subtle thing, 
(If you could show me any such 

In air that I can breathe !) 
And surely Death's cold hand has much, so 
much, 

About it we can touch ! 

Ah, friend of mine, 
Say nothing of the thorns — and then 

Say nothing of the snow. 
God's will ? It is — that thorns must grow, 



48 COMFORT — BY A COFFIN. 

Despite our bare and troubled feet, 

To crown Christ on the cross ; 
The snow keeps white watch on the unrisen 
wheat, 

And yet — the world is sweet. 

Ah, friend of mine, 
I know, I know — all you can know ! 

All you can say is — this : 
" It is the last time you can kiss 
This only one of all the dead, 

Knowing it is the last ; . 
These are the last tears you can ever shed 

On this fair fallen head." 






SAD WISDOM — FOUR YEARS OLD. 

" Well, but some time I will be dead ; 

Then you will love me, too ! " 
Ah ! mouth so wise for mouth so red, 

I wonder how you knew. 
(Closer, closer, little brown head — 

Not long can I keep you !) 

Here, take this one poor bud to hold, 
Take this long kiss and last ; 

Love cannot loosen one fixed fold 
Of the shroud that holds you fast — 

Never, never ; oh, cold, so cold ! 
All that was sweet is past. 
4 



50 SAD WISDOM FOUR YEARS OLD. 

Oh, tears, and tears, and foolish tears, 
Dropped on a grave somewhere ! 

Does not the child laugh in my ears 
What time I feign despair ? 

Whisper, whisper — I know he hears ; 
Yet this is hard to bear. 

O world, with your wet face above 
One veil of dust, thick-drawn ! 

O weird voice of the hapless dove, 
Broken for something gone ! 

Tell me, tell me, when will we love 
The thing the sun shines on ? 



GIVING UP THE WORLD. 

So, from the ruins of the world alone 

Can Heaven be builded ? Oh, 
What other temples must be overthrown, 

Founded in sand or snow ! 

But, Heaven can not be built with jewelled 
hands ? 

Then — from my own I wring 
Glitter of gold, the gifts of many lands ; 

The seas their pearls I fling. 

Heaven must be hung with pictures of the 
dead ? 

The shroud must robe the saint ? 
Never one halo round a living head 

Would Raphael dare to paint ? 



52 GIVING UP THE WORLD. 

Heaven must have flowers — after the worm 
has crossed 

Their blush, the wind their breath ? 
After the utter silence of the frost 

Has made them white with death ? 

Heaven must have music — but the birds that 
sing 

In that divinest nest 
Thither must waver, wounded in the wing 

And wounded in the breast ? 

Heaven must be lighted — at the fallen light 

Of moon, and star, and sun ? 
Ah me ! since these have made the earth too 
bright, 

Let the dark Will be done ! 



NO HELP. 

When will the flowers grow there ? I cannot 
tell. 
Oh, many and many a rain will beat there 
first, 
Stormy and dreary, such as never fell 

Save when the heart was breaking that had 
nursed 
Something most dear a little while, and then 
Murmured at giving God his own again. 

The woods were full of violets, I know ; 

And some wild sweet-briers grew so near 

the place : 
Their time is not yet come. Dead leaves and 

snow 

Must cover first the darling little face 



54 NO HELP. 

From these wet eyes, forever fixed upon 
Your last still cradle, O most precious one ! 

Is he not with his Father ? So I trust. 

Is he not His ? Was he not also mine ? 
His mother's empty arms yearn toward the 
dust. 

Heaven lies too high, the soul is too divine. 
I wake at night and miss him from my breast, 
And — human words can never say the rest. 

Safe ? But out of the world, out of my sight ! 

My way to him through utter darkness lies. 
I am gone blind with weeping, and the light — 

If there be light — is shut inside the skies. 
Think you, to give my bosom back his breath, 
I would not kiss him from the peace called 
Death ? 









NO HELP. 55 

And do I want a little Angel ? No, 

I want my Baby — with such piteous pain, 

That were this bitter life thrice bitter, oh ! 
I could not choose but take him back again. 

God cannot help me, for God cannot break 

His own dark Law — for my poor sorrow's 
sake. 



HOME AGAIN. 

It is a mournful thing to have no home, 

To wear a shroud of loneliness on earth, 
To know that fate has forced thee forth to 
roam, 
And fear thyself unwelcome by each 
hearth, — 
To hear harsh, stranger voices, and to raise 
A drooping lid and meet a loveless gaze ! 

Once, long ago, the lightning's quivering glare 

« 

Lit the strange sadness of a boyish face, 
And vanished from bright waves of tangled 

hair 
That seemed to touch the dark with sunny 

grace, 



HOME AGAIN. 57 

While the sad wind with many a fond caress 
Sighed for a kindred wanderer's loneliness. 



A C5 X 



Weary and wretched he had sunk to sleep 

Ere sunset's crimson loveliness was gone ; 

The twilight came and passed, night's gloom 

grew deep 

In the damp forest ; still he slumbered on, 

And — oh ! how strange ! — that friendless 

wanderer smiled 
As calmly as a cradled, thoughtless child. 

For Memory bore him to his home ; he heard 
The murmured music of his childish hours, 
He saw familiar trees and each bright bird 
Whose sweet song gushed at Spring-time 
mid the flowers ; 
His sister smiled, his mother's thrilling kiss 
Flush'd his pale cheek with more than former 
bliss. 



58 HOME AGAIN. 

He woke, while listening to the words of love, 
And heard the passing night-wind's deep 
farewell ! 
He saw the trees around, the clouds above, 
And murmured, starting from that blessed 
spell, 
" O God ! the loved are gone — my dream is 

o'er ; 
This is a forest — I Ve a home no more ! " 

. . . World-wanderer, thou art in a forest too ! 
Oh! dream and smile as did that lonely 
boy : 
There is a home for thee : the loved, the true, 

Await thee there amid unfading joy ; 
Weary and sad thou too shalt fall asleep : 
The shades around thee shall be dim and 
deep. 

Angels shall bear thee to thy home, and thou 
Shalt wake amid the light of early years ; 






HOME AGAIN. 59 

Thy mother's real kiss shall thrill thy brow 
And still the quivering of earth's lingering 
fears ; 
Remembered voices, with an added strain 
Of trembling love, will whisper Home Again! 

1857. 



ASKING FOR TEARS. 

Oh, let me come to Thee in this wild way, 
Fierce with a grief that will not sleep, to pray 
Of all thy treasures, Father, only one, 
After which I may say — Thy will be done. 

Nay, fear not Thou to make my time too sweet. 
I nurse a Sorrow, — kiss its hands and feet, 
Call it all piteous, precious names, and try, 
Awake at night, to hush its helpless cry. 

The sand is at my moaning lip, the glare 
Of the uplifted desert fills the air ; 
My eyes are blind and burning, and the years 
Stretch on before me. Therefore, give me 
Tears ! 



CALLING THE DEAD. 

My little child, so sweet a voice might wake 
So sweet a sleeper for so sweet a sake. 
Calling your buried brother back to you, 
You laugh and listen — till I listen too ! 

.... Why does he listen ? It may be to hear 
Sounds too divine to reach my troubled ear. 
Why does he laugh ? It may be he can see 
The face that only tears can hide from me. 

Poor baby faith — so foolish or so wise : 
The name I shape out of forlornest cries 
He speaks as with a bird's or blossom's breath. 
How fair the knowledge is that knows not 
Death ! 



62 CALLING THE DEAD. 

.... Ah, fools and blind — through all the pit- 
eous years 

Searchers of stars and graves — how many 
seers, 

Calling the dead, and seeking for a sign, 

Have laughed and listened, like this child of 
mine ? 



OTHER POEMS. 



-FOLDED HANDS." 

THE STORY OF A PICTURE. 

Madonna eyes looked at him from the air, 
But never from the picture. Still he painted. 

The hovering halo would not touch the hair, 
The patient saint still stared at him — un- 
sainted. 

Day after day flashed by in flower and frost ; 

Night after night, how fast the stars kept 
burning 
His little light away, till all was lost ! — 

All, save the bitter sweetness of his yearning. 

Slowly he saw his work : it was not good. 
Ah, hopeless hope ! Ah, fiercely-dying pas- 
sion ! 

5 



66 "folded hands." 

" I am no painter," moaned he as he stood, 
With folded hands in death's unconscious 
fashion. 

" Stand as you are, an instant ! " some one 
cried. 
He felt the voice of a diviner brother. 
The man who was a painter, at his side, 

Showed how his folded hands could serve 
another. 

Ah, strange, sad world, where Albert Diirer 
takes 
The hands that Albert Diirer's friend has 
folded, 
And with their helpless help such triumph 
makes ! — 
Strange, since both men of kindred dust 
were molded. 



THE LONGEST DEATH-WATCH.* 

The woman is a picture now. 

The Spanish suns have touched her face ; 

The coil of gold upon her brow 
Shines back on an Imperial race 
With most forlorn and bitter grace. 

Old palace-lamps behind her burn, 
The ermine molders on her train. 

Her ever-constant eyes still yearn 

For one who came not back to Spain ; 
And dim and hollow is her brain. 



* Joanna, the wife of Philip the Handsome, was the daugh- 
ter of Ferdinand and Isabella, sister of Catherine of Aragon, 
and mother of the Emperor Charles V. 



68 THE LONGEST DEATH-WATCH. 

One only thing she knew in life, 
Four hundred ghostly years ago — 

That she was Flemish Philip's wife. 
Nor much beyond she cared to know ; 
Without a voice she tells me so. 

Philip the Beautiful — whose eyes 
Might win a woman's heart, I fear, 

Even from his grave ! " He will arise," 
The monks had murmured by his bier, 

" And reign once more among us here." 

She heard their whisper, and forgot 
Castile and Aragon, and all 

Save Philip, who had loved her not ; 
The cruel darkness of his pall 
Seemed on an empty world to fall. 

She took the dead man — to her sight 
A prince in death's disguise, as fair 



Til: ST DEATH-WATCH, 69 

As when his wayward smile could light 
The throne he wedded her to share — 
And followed, hardly knowing where. 

Almost as dumb as he, she fled, 
Pallid and wasted, toward the place 

Where he, the priestly promise said, 

Must wait the hour when God's sweet grace 
Should breathe into his breathless face. 

Once, when the night was weird with rain, 
She sought a convent's shelter. When 

The tapers showed a veiled train 
Of nuns, instead of cowled men, 
She stole into the night again : 

" These women, sainted though they be," 

She moaned through all her jealous mind, 

M Are women still, and shall not see 

Philip the Fair — though he is blind ! 
Favor with him I yet shall find." 



70 THE LONGEST DEATH-WATCH. 

Then, with her piteous yearning wild : 
" Unclose his coffin quick, I pray." 
Fiercely the sudden lightning smiled — 
When they had laid the lid away — 
Like scorn, upon the regal clay. 

She kissed the dead of many days, 
As though he were an hour asleep. 

Dark men with swords to guard her way 
Wept for her — but she did not weep ; 
She had her vigil still to keep. 

They reached the appointed cloister. While 
The heart of Philip withering lay, 

She, without moan, or tear, or smile, 

Watched from her window, legends say — 
Watched seven-and-forty years away ! 

Winds blew the blossoms to and fro, 
Into the world and out again : 



III! EST DEATH-WATCH, 71 

" He will come back to me, I know" — 
Poor whisper of a wandering brain 
To peerless patience, peerless pain. 

.... Ah, longest, loneliest, saddest tryst 
Was ever kept on earth ! And yet 

Had he arisen would he have kissed 
The gray wan woman he had met, 
Or — taught her how the dead forget ? 

Could she have won, discrowned and old, 
The love she could not win, in sooth, 

When queenly purple, fold on fold, 
And all the subtle grace of youth, 
Helped her to hide a hapless truth ? 

Did she not fancy — should she see 

That coffin, watched so long, unclose — 

The royal tenant there would be 
Still young, still fair, when he arose, 
Beside her withered leaves and snows ? 



72 THE LONGEST DEATH-WATCH. 

He would have laughed to breathe the tale 
Of this crazed stranger's love, I fear, 

To moon and rose and nightingale, 
With courtly jewels glimmering near, 
Into some lovely lady's ear. 



TWO VEILS. 

From the nun's wan life a buried passion 
Blossomed like a grave-rose in her face ; 

" Sweet, my child," she said, " in what fair 
fashion 
Do you mean to wear this lovely lace ? 

u Thus ? " — and, with a feverish hand and 
shaken, 

Round her head the precious veil she wound. 
" Faith in man," she said, " I have forsaken ; 

Faith in God most surely I have found. 

" Yet with music in the dewy distance, 
And the whole world flowering at my feet, 



74 TWO VEILS. 

Through this convent-garment's dark resist- 
ance 
Backward I can hear my fierce heart beat. 

" Tropic eyes too full of light and languor, 
Northern soul too gray with Northern frost : 

Ashes — ashes after fires of anger ! 

Love and beauty — what a world I lost ! " 

" Sister," laughed the girl with girlish laugh- 
ter, 

" Sister, do you envy me my veil ? " 
" You may come to ask for mine hereafter," 

Answered very piteous lips and pale. 

" No, for your black cross is heavy bearing ; 

Tiresome counting these stone beads must 
be. 
Oh, but there are jewels worth the wearing 

Waiting in the sunny world for me ! 



TWO VEILS. 75 

Sister, have a care — you are forget- 



ting. 



Do not broider thorns among my flowers — 
Only buds and leaves : your tears are wetting 
All my bridal lace." They fell in showers. 

After years and years, beside the grating, 
(Oh, that saddest sight, young hair grown 
gray !) 

With dry boughs and empty winds awaiting 
At the cloister door, came one to pray. 

" Sister, see my bride-veil ! there was never 
Thorn so sharp as those within its lace. 

Sister, give me yours to wear forever ; 
Give me yours, and let me hide my face." 



TRADITION OF CONQUEST. 

His Grace of Marlborough, legends say, 
Though battle-lightnings proved his worth, 

Was scathed like others, in his day, 
By fiercer fires at his own hearth. 

The patient chief, thus sadly tried — 
Madam, the Duchess, was so fair — 

In Blenheim's honors felt less pride 
Than in the lady's lovely hair. 

Once, (shorn, she had coiled it there to wound 
Her lord when he should pass, 'tis said,) 

Shining across his path he found 
The glory of the woman's head. 



TRADITION OF CONQUEST. 7J 

No sudden word, nor sullen look, 

In all his after dayS, confessed 
He missed the charm whose absence took 

A scar's pale shape within his breast. 

I think she longed to have him blame, 
And soothe him with imperious tears : — 

As if her beauty were the same, 

He praised her through his courteous years. 

But, when the soldier's arm was dust, t 

Among the dead man's treasures, where 

He laid it as from moth and rust, 
They found his wayward wife's sweet hair. 



TO A DEAD BIRD, 

FOUND IN THE WOODS AT EVENING. 

Bird of the forest, beautiful and dead ! 

While in the twilight here I look on thee, 
Strange fancies, of the wild life that has fled, 

Dimly and sadly gather over me, 
Until, above thy calm and silent sleep, 
I can but bow my aching head and weep. 

Alas, that when the Spring-time 's here to wake 
The flowers and music of thy woodland 
halls, 
Thou whose glad voice so sweet a strain could 
make 
In concert with the winds and water-falls, 
In cold and hushed oblivion shouldst lie — 
While things that suffer ask, in vain, to die ! 



TO A DEAD BIRD. 79 

But, wast thou purely blest ? Ah, who can tell 
But birds may have their sorrows ? It may 
be 
That boundless love in thy small breast did 
dwell 
For some bright, winged thing — that flew 
from thee 
And left his scorn to pierce thy bleeding heart, 
Till Death, in pity, drew away its dart ! 

Or thine, perchance, has been a perfect love, 
(If any love can be without a sting !) 

And thy lone mate may come to mourn above 
Thy blighted beauty, with a drooping wing, 

Till, like all lonely mates, he seek relief, 

In some new rapture, for his transient grief ! 

Or thou mayst have been of a royal race ; 
And radiant throngs of minstrel-things to- 
day, 



80 TO A DEAD BIRD. 

Even in thine airy realm's remotest place, 
May mourn, or joy, that thou hast passed 
away, — 
For gold and purple glitter on thy breast, 
And thou art laid right regally to rest. 

Was thy death tranquil ? — Or, amid the glare 
Of Heaven's fierce fire-arms was thy being 
sped ? 
Or did some winged assassin of the air, 

For hate, or envy, meet and strike thee 
dead ? 
Was life still blushing with youth's rosy glow, 
Or, worn and wearied, wast thou glad to go ? 

And was thy all of joy, or grief, on earth ? 

Or art thou gone to try thy wing anew 
Where lovelier roses have their happier birth, 

And woods are ever green, skies ever blue, 
And breezy music gushes rich and warm, 
With not a sigh, or whisper of the storm ? 



TO A DEAD BIRD. 8 1 

. . . Fit mausoleum is this hollow tree, 

With faded leaves to pillow thy bright head ; 

And, if such rest is all that's left for thee, 
Methinks it is enough, sweet singer dead ! 

For winds will sing and buds will burst abbve, 

And I '11 believe they left thee here with love ! 
1857. 



MADE OF SHADOW. 

There is a Picture in the room, 

Somewhere — I only say somewhere. 
Cobwebs and dust and subtle gloom 
May hide the lips' mysterious bloom 
And that forever-youthful hair. 

Whether a thousand years or none 
Have withered since He painted it, 

The moon reveals it, and the sun ; 

The stars point toward it every one ; 
The shadows show it as they flit. 

And was this precious Picture won 

From palace-glimmer over seas ? — 
Some king, or else some king's fair son ? 



MADE OF SHADOW. 83 

toldier whose right arm is done 
With sword and scar ? Nay, none of these. 

Then by whom painted ? — Would you cut 

Into a wound with one sharp word ? 
The Painter's grave is sealed and shut : 
A fairer name than Raphael's — but 
A name that no man ever heard. 

Oh, question silence, measure space, 
Or say " I shall be satisfied ! " — 

But leave that Picture in its place. 

We meet each other face to face, — 
We meet, although the world is wide. 

I cannot fly the tropic eyes 

Fixed fiercely on my own so long. 
They know me through the sad disguise 
Of time and sorrow. Tears may rise, 
Imploring them — but they are strong. 



84 MADE OF SHADOW. 

.... Come, kiss away the Spell, I pray, 
And kiss the beauty I assume, 

Sometimes, to match his own, away. 

But you must let the Picture stay. 
It is no dream. It is my doom. 



IN A QUEEN'S DOMAIN. 

Ah, my subject, the rose, I know, 

Will give me her breath and her blush ; 

And my subject, the lily, spread snow, 
If I pass, for my foot to crush. 

My subjects, the lamb and the fawn, 
They hide their heads in my breast ; 

And my subject, the dove, coos on, 

Though my hand creep close to her nest 

But my subject, the bee, will sting ; 

And my subject, the thorn, will tear ; 
And my subject, the tiger, will spring 

At me, with a cry and a glare. 



86 IN a queen's domain. 

And my subject, the lion, will shake 
With his anger my loneliest lands ; 

And my subject, the snake (ah! the snake!) 
Will strike me dead in the sands ! 



THE SONG NO BIRD SHOULD SING 
IN VAIN. 

The song no bird should sing in vain, 
The song no bird will sing again, 
I did not hear before the fleet 
Air-singer lost it at my feet. 

The wind that blew the enchanted scent 
From some divine still continent, 
Beat long against my window, but 
It found and left my window shut. 

The king's fair son, who came in state, 
With my lost slipper, for its mate, 
I only saw through my regret — 
Oh, I am in the ashes yet ! 



A DEAD MAN'S FRIENDS. 

Gathered from many lands, 
A company still and strange 
In the shadow of velvet and oak ! ■ 
Not one to another spoke. 
With faces that did not change, 
Weird with the night and dim, 
They were looking their last at him. 

If ever men were wise, 

If ever women were fair, 

If ever glory was dust 

In a world of moth and rust, — 

Why these and this were there. 
Guests of the great, ah me ! 
How cold is your courtesy ! 



1 



A DEAD man's FRIENDS. 89 

Does the loveliest lady of all 

Drop Titian's light from her hair 
Down into his darkened eyes — 
His, who in his coffin lies ? 
Dees that crouching Venus care 

That he must forget the charm 

Of her broken, beautiful arm ? 

Yet these were the dead man's friends, 
Wooed in his passionate youth 
And won when his head was gray ; — 
Look at them close, I pray. 
Ah, these he has loved, in sooth ; 
Yet among them all, I fear, 
Is nothing so sweet as — a tear ! 



MAKING PEACE. 

After this feud of yours and mine 

The sun will shine ; 
After we both forget, forget, 

The sun will set. 

I pray you think how warm and sweet 

The heart can beat ; 
I pray you think how soon the rose 

From grave-dust grows. 



I 



THE BIRD IN THE BRAIN. 

I \ a legend of the East there sits 

A bird with never a mate : 
Out of the dead man's brain it flits, — 
Too late for a prayer, too late, 
Repeating all the sin 
Which the beating heart shut in. 

Little child of mine, that I kiss and fold, 

With your flower-like hand at my breast, 
Already within this head all gold 
That bird is building a nest ! 

May it give but one brief cry, 
Sweet, when you come to die. 

My lord, the king, that shadowy bird 
Broods under your crown, I fear ; 



92 THE BIRD IN THE BRAIN. 

Take care, sir priest, lest you whisper a word 
That Heaven were loth to hear : — 

Ermine nor lawn will it spare ; 
Ah, king, ah, priest, take care ! 

Oh, half-saint sister, so cloister-pale, 

That bird will be at your bier. 
Though you count your beads, though you 
wear your veil, 
Though you hold your cross right dear, 
When your funeral tapers come 
Will the weird of wing be dumb ? 

Poor lover, beware of the bud of the rose 

In the maiden's hand at your side : 
She has some secret, the dark bird knows, 
Which her youth's fair hair can hide ; 

Turn, maid, from your lover, too — 
The bird knows more than you ! 



SOME RUINED CASTLES. 

Come, wailing winds ; come, birds of night ; 

Come, Time, and bring the ivy vine 
To wind in constant clasp and bright 

This desolated pride of mine ; — 
Come with your mildew and your mold 

For these rich draperies, these fair halls ; 
Come with your mosses, and enfold 

These humbled towers, these broken walls ! 



"A LETTER FROM TO-MORROW." 

[the words of a child.] 

The child stood sweet and shy : 
" Now listen, — do not cry : 

'A Letter from To-morrow ' " he pite- 

ously said ; 

Then wavered, frowned, and blushed, 
And looked away and hushed 
The elfin voice that spoke through lips of hu- 
man red. 

" I cannot read the rest," 
He prettily confessed, 
" Because — it is not plain ! " Ah, would I hear 
it read ? 



"A LETTER FROM TO-MORROW." 95 

Toor little hands, to hold 
A thing so dim and cold, 
So full of sad shorn hair and last words of the 
dead ! 

Let it go where it will, 
There must be news of ill. 
Send it to that great house across the shining 
street : — 

To-night, in lights and lace, 
There Madam holds her place, 
Brief as the foreign flowers that drop dead at 
her feet. 

Madonna-hair and eyes 

Remind one of the skies, 
(No other picture there more subtly hides its 
paint.) 

Divinely of the earth ! — 

That last dear dress from Worth 
Is too Parisian, perhaps, to fit a saint. 



96 "A LETTER FROM TO-MORROW." 

This Letter's shadowy date, 
" To-morrow," folds her fate — 
(Reach for it, eager arm, so beautiful and bare !) 
She reads : " Your hair is gray, 
And men forget the day — 
Can you remember it ? — the day when you 
were fair ! " 

He reads — her stately lord, 
Out-glittering some chance sword, 
Or right new gold, perhaps, wherewith his 
name was made : 
" Taken as in a snare ! — 
Called by a bird of the air 
To justice, go and give and take it, O be- 
trayed ! " 

Still keep the letter there : — 
His boy, the gracious heir 



"A LETTER FROM TO-MORROW." 97 

To beauty, love, and hope — a brave enough 
estate, — 

Lets fall his toys and reads, 
* Wounded to death ! " and heeds. 
A coffin for white flowers stands ready at the 
gate. 

Give her the letter — see 
How fairy-sweet is she, 
His girl in her first youth ! She droops her 
flower-like head, 

To read — no charmed tale 
Of bridal buds and vail ; 
But finds a broken ring and leave to earn her 
bread. 

Take, now, the letter where 
There 's music in the air, 
And let the poet read : " The worm likes well 
your book." 
7 



98 "A LETTER FROM TO-MORROW." 

Painter, if you are he 
Master that is to be, 
Your name is not in all this Letter, — only 
look! 

Some scented page will bring 
This Letter to the king ; 
To-morrow will be smooth with him and loyal- 
sweet : 

" Your throne is shaken, sire — 
Your palace lost in fire ; 
Your prince must hide with sand the far tracks 
of his feet ! " 

Shut close your Letter, child. 

The wind is weird and wild — 
I give it to the wind to bury in the sea, 

Full fathom five, and pray 

That till the Judgment Day 
No fisherman may bring such treasure up to me ! 



HER WELL-KNOWN STORY. 

She had waited, 
On her soft cheek catching many a winter's 
snow. 
Very lovely was the heart unmated ; 
Beauty far too beautiful to show, 
When her dewy days had withered, 
Bloomed below. 

Children, brightly, 
Near her Christmas windows held their toys 
and passed ; 
Mothers kissed their laughing babies lightly ; 
Heads of girls went, sunny-sweet and fast, 
Under gifts of bridal blossoms ; 
Then, at last, 



100 HER WELL-KNOWN STORY. 

One green morning, 
When small songs were shaking many a pretty- 
nest, 
On her birthday, without any warning, 
Came her life-long Lover to her breast, 
Bringing white flowers and a casket 
Full of rest. 



FULFILLMENT. 

He who can sing a song more sweet 
Than skylarks learn in finest air, 

Hears subtler music at his feet 

Hum in the grass — at his despair. 

He who has found a sudden star, 
With new, quick halos for his head, 

Sighs for some brighter one afar, 
That sits forever veiled, instead. 

He who has dared, though half -afraid, 
To make such beauty of the stone 

As God from dust has never made, 
At last looks on it with a moan. 



102 FULFILLMENT. 

And she who wears such threads of lace 
As fairies might from moonshine spin, 

Will find, if any flower she trace, 
The loveliest leaf was not put in. 

Yet holds this world one perfect thing, 
That leaves no room to weep or pine ; 

You gave it to me with a ring, 
To be forever only mine. 



WITH CHILDREN. 



THE LITTLE BOY I DREAMED 
ABOUT. 

ft 

This is the only world I know — 
It is in this same world, no doubt. 

Ah me, but I could love him so, 
If I could only find him out, — 
The Little Boy I dreamed about ! 

This Little Boy, who never takes 
The prettiest orange he can see, 

The reddest apple, all the cakes 

(When there are twice enough for three,) - 
Where can the darling ever be ? 

He does not tease and storm and pout 
To climb the roof in rain or sun, 



106 THE LITTLE BOY I DREAMED ABOUT. 

And pull the pigeon's feathers out 
To see how it will look with none, 
Or fight with hornets one to one ! 

He does not hide and cut his hair ♦ 

And wind the watches wrong, and cry 

To throw the kitten down the stair 
And see how often it will die ! 
(It 's strange that you can wonder why !) 

He never wakes too late to know 
A bird is singing near his bed ; 

He tells the tired moon : " You may go 
To sleep yourself." He never said, 
When told to do a thing, " Tell Fred ! " 

If I say " Go," he will not stay 

To lose his hat, or break a toy ; 
Then hurry like the wind away, 



THE LITTLE BOY I DREAMED ABOUT. 107 

And whistle like the wind, for joy 
To please himself — this Little Boy. 

Let any stranger come who can, 
He will not say — if it is true — 
" Old Lady " (or " Old Gentleman "), 
" I wish you would go home, I do — 
I think my mama wants you to ! " 

No — Fairyland is far and dim : 
He does not play in silver sand ; 

But if I could believe in him 
I could believe in Fairyland. 
Because you do not understand. 

Dead — dead ? Somehow I do not know. 

The sweetest children die. We may 
Miss some poor footprint from the snow, 

That was his very own to-day. 
"God's will" — is what the Christians say. 



108 THE LITTLE BOY I DREAMED ABOUT. 

Like you, or you, or you can be 

When you are good, he looks, no doubt. 

I 'd give — the goldenest star I see 
In all the dark to find him out, 
The Little Boy I dreamed about ! 



THE BABY'S HAND. 

What is it the Baby's hand can hold ? — 

Only one little flower, do you say ? 
Why, all the blossoms that ever blew 
In the sweet wide wind away from the dew, 
And all the jewels and all the gold 

Of the kingdoms of the world to-day, 
The Baby's hand can hold. 

What is it the Baby's hand can hold ? 

Why, all the honey of all the bees, 
And all the valleys where summer stays, 
And all the sands of the desert's ways, 
And all the snows that were ever cold, 

And all the mountains and all the seas, 
The Baby's hand can hold. 



110 THE BABYS HAND. 

What is it the Baby's hand can hold — 

The Baby's hand so pretty and small ? 
Why, just what the shoulders of Atlas bear, 
Bending him down in the picture there : 
(Now all I can tell you is surely told) — 

" But that is the world ? " Well, that is all 
The Baby's hand can hold. 

How is it the Baby's hand can hold 
The world ? Yes, surely I ought to know ; 

For oh, were the Baby's hand withdrawn, 

Down into the dust the world were gone, 

Folded therein as you might fold 
The sad white bud of a rose — just so — 

For the Baby's hand to hold. 



IF I HAD MADE THE WORLD. 

If I had made the world — ah me ! 

I might have left some things undone ! 
But as to him — my boy, you see, 
A pretty world this world would be, 

I 'd say, without George Washington ! 

Would I have made the Baby ? Oh, 
There were no need of anything 

Without the Baby, you must know ! 

I 'm a Republican, and so 

I never would have made " the King." 

I might have made the President — 

Had I known how to make him right ! 
Columbus ? Yes, if I had meant 



112 IF I HAD MADE THE WORLD. 

To find a flowering continent 
Already made for me, I might. 

I would have made one poet too — 

Has God made more ? Yes, I for- 
got, 

There is no need of asking you ; 

You know as little as I do. 

A poet is — well, who knows what ? 

And yet a poet is, my dear, 

A man who writes a book like this, 
(There never was but one, I hear ;) 

Yes, it is hard to spell S-h-a-k-e-s- 

p-e-a-r-e. 
So, now, Good- night, — and here's a kiss. 

You are not tired ? — you want to know 

What else I would have made ? Not much. 
A few white lambs that would not grow ; 



IF I HAD MADE THE WORLD. II3 

Some violets that would stay ; some snow 
Not quite too cold for you to touch. 

I 'd not have taught my birds to fly ; 

My deepest seas would not be deep ! — 
My highest mountains hardly high ; 
My deserts full of dates should lie — 

But why will you not go to sleep ? 

I *d not have made the wind, because 
It 's made of — nothing. Never mind. 

Nor any white bears — they have claws ; 

(Nor " Science," no, nor " Nature's laws ! ") 
Nor made the North Pole hard to find ! 

I 'd not have made the monkeys — (then 

No one could ever prove to me 
There ever was a season when 
All these fine creatures we call men 
Hung chattering in some tropic tree !) 
8 



114 IF I HAD MADE THE WORLD. 

Once more, Good-night. This time you 
hear ? 
Please hear as well my morning call. 

Yes, first I '11 tell you something 

queer : 
If / had made the world, I fear — 
I f d not have made the world at all ! 



"MORE ABOUT THE FAIRIES." 

In daisy-leaf dresses too pretty to touch, 
And little lace-wings made of dreams and of 
dew, 
I think I have told you as much and as much 
Of these people of moonshine — as ever I 
knew ! 

" Then read about them in the Bible ? " Look 
here, 
You smallest of saints (for your first name is 
Paul), 
The truth is, if I can remember, I fear 
The Bible says nothing about them at all. 



Il6 "MORE about the fairies." 

" Then when did God make them ? " Why, 

when he made Eve 
They were hid in the lilies of Eden, I guess. 
" But the Snake ? " — Never mind ; you and I 

will believe 
In the angels a little — the snake somewhat 

less ! 

You thought it was after the flood they were 
made 
(When the dove was so white and the sea 
was so dark), 
Because there were none of them, you are 
afraid, 
With the other wild animals, saved in the 
ark! 

" But if they are not in the Bible, why then 
They are not anywhere — for they cannot be 
true ? " 



"MORE ABOUT THE FAIRIES. I 1 7 

They 're in — next-to-the-Bible ! The greatest 
of men 
Believed in them, surely, as much as you do. 

You do not believe in them ? — " It would be 
sin 
To believe in things out of the Bible ? " Oh, 
dear ! 
Fair sir, are you not rather young to begin 
To be doubting the faith of — one Mr. 
Shakespeare ? 

.... Still, sooner or later, Time touches the 
towers 
Where the Golden Hair used to glimmer 
so, — 
Then what is there left in this wide world of 
ours 
That we children care any longer to know ? 
7 



Il8 "MORE ABOUT THE FAIRIES." 

.... Go, then, and believe in the red on the 
rose, 
In the gold on the moon, in the butterfly's 
wings, 
And believe, if you will, in — the wind as it 
blows 
The beauty away from all beautiful things ! 



THE SAD STORY OF A LITTLE 
GIRL. 

Oh, never mind her eyes and hair, 

(Though they were dark and it was gold !) 

That she was sweet is all I care 
To tell you — till the rest is told. 
" But is the story old ?" 

Hush. She was sweet Why do I cry ? 

Because — her mother loved her so. 
I told you that she did not die ; 

But she is gone. " Where did she go ? " 

Ah me, — I do not know. 

" How old was she when she was sweet ? " 
Why, one year old, or two, or three. 



120 THE SAD STORY OF A LITTLE GIRL. 

Here is her shoe — what little feet ! 
And yet they walked away, you see. 
(I must not say, from me.) 

" Did Gypsies take her ? " Surely, no. 

But — something took her ; she is lost : 
No track of hers in dew or snow, 

No heaps of wild buds backward tossed, 
To show what paths she crossed. 

" Did Fairies take her ? " It may be. 
For Fairies sometimes, I have read, 
Will climb the moonshine, secretly, 
To steal a baby from its bed, 
And leave an imp instead. 

This Changeling, German tales declare, 
Make trouble in the house full. soon: 
Cries at the tangles in its hair, 



THE SAD STORY OF A LITTLE GIRL. 1 21 

Beats the piano out of tune, 
And — wants to sleep till noon. 

And, while it keeps the lost one's face, 
It grows less lovely, year by year 

Yes, in that pretty baby's place 
There was a Changeling left, I fear. 

.... My little maid, do you hear ? 



AT HANS ANDERSEN'S FUNERAL. 

Why, all the children in all the world had list- 
ened around his knee, 

But the wonder-tales must end ; 
So, all the children in all the world came into 
the church to see 

The still face of their friend. 

" But were any fairies there ? " Why, yes, little 
questioner of mine, 

For the fairies loved him too ; 
And all the fairies in all the world, as far as the 
moon can shine, 

Sobbed, " Oh ! what shall we do ? " 






AT HANS ANDERSEN S FUNERAL. I 23 

Well, the children who played with the North's 
white swans, away in the North's white 
snows, 

Made wreaths of fir for his head ; 
And the South's dark children scattered the 
scents of the South's red rose 
Down at the feet of the dead. 

Yes, all the children in all the world were there 
with their tears that day ; 

But the boy who loved him best, 
Alone in a damp and lonesome place (not far 
from his grave) he lay — 

And sadder than all the rest. 

u Mother," he moaned, " never mind the king — 
why, what if the king is there ? 
Never mind your faded shawl : 
The king may never see it ; for the king will 
hardly care 

To look at your clothes at all." 



124 AT hans Andersen's funeral. 

So, close to his coffin she crouched, in the 
breath of the burial flowers, 

And begged for a bud or a leaf : — 
" If I cannot have one, O sirs, to take to that 
poor little room of ours, 

My boy will die of his grief ! " 

My child, if the king was there, and I think he 
was (but then I forget), 

Why, that was a little thing. 
Did a dead man ever lift his head from its place 
in the coffin yet, 

Do you think, to bow to the king ? 

" But could he not see him up in Heaven ? " I 
never was there, you know ; 
But Heaven is too far, I fear, 
For the ermine, and purple, and gold, that make 
up the king, to show 

So bravely as they do here. 



AT HANS ANDERSEN S FUNERAL. I 25 

But he saw the tears of the peasant-child, by 
the beautiful light he took 

From the earth in his close-shut eyes ; 
For tears are the sweetest of all the things we 
shall see, when we come to look 
From the windows of the skies. 



WISHING FOR DIAMONDS. 1 

Diamonds ? Ah, me ! I Ve heard of some 
That you might have. Yes, I know where. 

A princess wore them. She is dumb, 
And deaf, and blind. She will not care. 

" What does she wear without them ? " Oh, 
White linen, folded. That is best. 

If you were she ? — you would not know, 
Perhaps, how sweetly you were dressed. 

" Where are the diamonds ? " In the East 

A king sits grieving so, to-day, 
That neither soldier, slave, nor priest 

Dare speak to him, the whispers say. 

1 The allusions in this piece are to a newspaper account of, 
with the circumstances attending, the death of a daughter of 
the Khedive of Egypt. 



WISHING FOR DIAMONDS. 127 

You did not know that there were things 

In all this world, or any place, 
That ever could be hard for kings ? — 

His trouble makes him hide his face. 

" Then is his palace lost ? " Why, no ; 

Not lost, but empty — that is it. 
The enchanted lamps above him glow ; 

The satin shadows round him flit. 

Meanwhile his camels wander by, 

The poor get gold and wine and bread ; 

And Egypt hears the old, old cry, 
Because his favorite child is dead. 

.... It is the diamonds — I forget ? 

You wonder where they can be hid ? 
I fear that you could see them yet ; 

They are upon her coffin lid. 



128 WISHING FOR DIAMONDS. 

Something the princess there has not, 

Something you have, would buy them quite 

A thousand times. What is it, what ? — 
Then you would give it, if you might ? 

.... Ah, what is bitter, what is true, 
In this sweet, doubtful world but death ? 

.... So you will give it, will you — you ? 
Well, then, red lips, it is your breath. 






VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 

(Sung to a Wakeful Little Boy 07ie Rainy Autumn Evening,) 

Good Little Boy, have you got any fire, 
To warm a little fairy 
Wet and dripping, 
Out-doors knocking ? — 

Good Little Boy, have you got any fire ? 

Good Little Boy, have you got any fire, 
To warm a little puppy, 
Wet and dripping, 
Out-doors barking ? — 

Good Little Boy, have you got any fire ? 



130 VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 

Good Little Boy, have you got any fire, 
To warm a little kitten, 
Wet and dripping, 
Out-doors mewing ? — 

Good Little Boy, have you got any fire ? 

Good Little Boy, have you got any fire, 
To warm a little fairy, 
Wet and dripping, 
Out-doors knocking ? — 

Good Little Boy, have you got any fire ? 

1865. 



